


What Happens When You Let the Petty-Dwarf Keep the Cursed Sword

by MayGlenn



Series: May's February Ficlet Challenge 2019 [14]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Curses, F/M, Fluff - for The Silmarillion, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 02:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17799389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: “Túrin! Túrin, damn it! It’s me!” Beleg hissed, wrestling Túrin down as he came up from unconsciousness swinging (because of course Túrin only had two modes: dumbass and murder-machine). “It’s Beleg, you dumbass, calm the fuck down, I’m here to rescue you!”The language of Men had good curse words, no matter what else the elf thought of it.





	What Happens When You Let the Petty-Dwarf Keep the Cursed Sword

“Túrin! Túrin, damn it! It’s me!” Beleg hissed, wrestling Túrin down as he came up from unconsciousness swinging (because of course Túrin only had two modes: dumbass and murder-machine). “It’s Beleg, you dumbass, calm the fuck down, I’m here to rescue you!”

The language of Men had good curse words, no matter what else the elf thought of it.

Beleg had thrown himself on top of his friend, and tossed the dagger over to Gwindor. Gwindor stared at the dagger like it was a snake, and looked around them fearfully, worried they were still too near the orc encampment to be carrying on like this.

Túrin struggled again, hips bucking and eyes unseeing. He reached for another dagger, one of the blades used to torture and threaten him, and struck at Beleg with it.

“Shit! Túrin!” Beleg shouted again as the blade sliced his arm, but he knocked the weapon free of Túrin’s hand and got him into a stranglehold. “You’re _safe_ now, you fuck. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Túrin went still for a moment, ready to fold in on himself, that way he got when he was too afraid of disappointment to come out of his unfeeling shell. Beleg shook him, switching to Sindarin to force him to focus. “Damn it, Túrin, look at me.”

“...Beleg?” Túrin whispered, trying to reach up to grab his face with his bound wrists. Beleg let him move, though he watched him warily, like he might still snap at any moment. “I thought you were…”

“Well, it’s me,” Beleg said firmly, getting off Túrin and letting him pant for air. The human was covered in scrapes and welts and bruises, but except for how shallow and quick he was breathing, Beleg could find no serious injuries. He patted down his body to check for injuries and to finish breaking through the chains around his feet. “But we’re not out of the woods, yet, buddy. You with me? We’ve got some running to do.”

Túrin nodded, looking around him: he startled and sat up when he noticed Gwindor, who had been a prisoner for longer, and looked it. “Beleg—!”

“Hush. That’s Gwindor. He’s our friend. A hero from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, escaped from Angband. Gwindor, this is my disaster boyfriend, Túrin.”

Gwindor didn’t move from where he crouched out of Túrin’s reach, but he gave a little wave.

“Okay,” Beleg said, when Túrin’s legs were freed. He patted them roughly. “Can you stand?”

“I—”

“Good.” Beleg hauled him to his feet and pressed some lembas into his still-bound hands. “Stay with me. And speak Elvish, I don’t know that Gwindor speaks Mannish.”

“I speak all three dialects, thanks,” Gwindor replied in Westron, also getting to his feet.

Gwindor was bent and bowed with long torment, and now that Túrin got a good look at Beleg, he looked like he was suffering from old wounds, as well. Túrin was just a little roughed up and tired and hungry, and he felt ready to die—and here Beleg was running around with a damned sucking chest wound like it was nothing.

Elves, man.

“‘Anywhere but here’ sounds good in any language right now,” Túrin said. “Which way? And where’s your sword?”

“Yeah...that thing was starting to freak me out. I let the petty-dwarf keep it.”

…

They ran all night and most of the day, knowing daylight was when they would get the better of their orc pursuers. The daylight also helped rally their human, as did a short break for food, water, and cutting the chains off his wrists. They ran until night fell again, when Túrin began to lag behind, and Gwindor, too.

Beleg let them stop at the Pools of Ivrin, where they cast themselves down, too weary to eat or drink, and strong enough only to wrap their arms around each other, needing warmth and starved of companionship. Beleg, though he knew no evil could approach these pools, tried to stay awake while Gwindor and Túrin slept, but he, too, needed rest, and fell asleep where he lay on Túrin’s other side.

When it was light, Beleg encouraged them with the last of his water and lembas, and Gwindor led them, slowly, to the hidden city.

…

Nargothrond did not exactly welcome them, but it did not turn them away. Túrin lay long in a fever, with Beleg beside him, leaving Gwindor in the care of his once-beloved, Finduilas, who renewed her love for him. Túrin, she thought—as did all of Nargothrond—was quite handsome, but Beleg guarded his person and his love so jealously that no one made an attempt to know him better. And they all healed of their wounds and heartsickness, and Túrin and Beleg shared many nights together in bliss until their strength was renewed.

“I’m just sick of all this secrecy,” Túrin confessed to Beleg one night as they lay in bed together. “Orodreth should use his armies to attack Morgoth’s forces. We should build a bridge large enough to let the army pass!”

But Beleg tempered him: “That’s fucking stupid and you know it. You always need a place to fall back to, and if Morgoth were to discover this place, we’d all be doomed. Don’t you want to find your mother and sister and have someplace safe to bring them back to?”

“The King won’t let us leave,” Túrin protested.

“Well not with that kind of attitude,” Beleg replied.

Túrin bit his boyfriend’s stupid pointy ear in retaliation for always being right, and closed his eyes with a sigh. “What would I do without you?”

“A lot of damage, to yourself and everyone around you.”

“Yeah, probably.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fourteenth in the February Ficlet Challenge of 2019. The prompt was "Fluff with a Happy Ending," to which I gave my best attempt, considering... 
> 
> Part 2 of Today's _Silmarillion_ Double Feature.


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